Cage grinned disdainfully. This one wants to make me believe he’s a professional. Hmph. May be useful.
Mendez extracted a cigarillo and a tin of lucifers. “Sure, I hate Strong—for what he did to my friend and because he is an arrogant bastard.”
“Good.” Cage scratched his neck. “Then everyone at this table wants Emmett Strong dead, right?”
By now the folks at the other tables were back to their own business for the most part, though they continued to cast the odd glance Cage’s way.
Reaching for the whiskey bottle, Sanchez asked, “May I ask why you hate Strong? Why you want him dead, Señor Cage? Did Mr. Taft hire you to kill him?”
“I didn’t hire him,” Taft said quietly but emphatically, his features somber.
Cage leaned against his chair back. “Unlike you, Señor Sanchez, I don’t hate Emmett Strong. But he needs to die—him and the two folks traveling with him.”
“Don’t you mean three?” Sanchez’s amigo asked.
“Three? Now how would you know that, Señor Mendez?”
Now Mendez looked uneasy. “We followed them here from San Antonio, on the same train.”
“Hmm.” Something at the front door caught Cage’s attention. Two men had just entered and were systematically taking stock of the crowd. Badges. “Company, Mr. Taft,” he said.
Taft rose. As he did, the thicker and older lawman said something to the younger one, and both began to make their way directly toward the back table.
“I’ll make sure they leave right away,” Taft said.
“Don’t get yourself in a pucker,” Cage said. “It’ll only make ’em suspicious.”
Taft nodded and hurried away. In a tight stretch between two tables, he awkwardly stepped into the lawmen’s path, drawing curious stares from those seated on either side. As the saloon owner talked indistinctly, both lawmen kept looking past him toward the table he’d come from. And they weren’t just casually glancing.
All the while, Sanchez kept his back to the lawmen and his face straight ahead, though his eyes, once again, moved constantly. His shoulders were hunched as though he were attempting to make himself as small as possible.
Mendez rested an elbow on the table and continued to smoke.
The older lawman started for the bar, then paused and said something to Taft. Taft clapped him on the shoulder and motioned toward the bartender.
Easy, Taft, Cage thought.
But the lawman, clutching Taft by the arm, was now physically guiding the saloon owner toward the counter. The young one lingered where he was for a moment, studying Cage and the other men at the table with him.
Keeping an eye on Taft, Cage asked Mendez, “You followed Strong to El Paso. Do you know where he is right now?”
Mendez shook his head. “They got off the train back in San Elizario. They came the rest of the way on horseback and then split up when they got here. It’s as though they suspected they were being followed or maybe suspected that somebody here would be watching for them, waiting for them to arrive.”
“We haven’t seen them since they split up,” Sanchez said.
Cage tapped the table lightly. “I need not just Strong but his friends as well.” Lifting a single finger toward Sanchez, he said, “And you’re going to help me find them.”
Following a brief hesitation, Sanchez said, “You want the same thing I want. I’ll help you.”
“You, too,” Cage said to Mendez.
Mendez nodded. “How do you want to do this?”
Cage glanced at Lum. “Wait till Mr. Taft gets back to the table. I’ll lay it out for you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Maybe fifteen minutes after entering the Wild Hog, Alonzo Perry and his deputy rejoined Emmett, Li, Juanito, and VanDorn in the alley behind the telegraph office. Perry held up a hand. “Before I say anything else, whatever I tell you, you can’t just go chargin’ into that saloon ready to let lead fly. The place is packed.”
Emmett had no less concern for innocent bystanders than the marshal did. But if somebody in there was out for blood—his blood or Juanito’s—he wouldn’t leave it for the marshal to decide how they would proceed. “So what’d you find out?”
Marshal Perry nodded. “Three fellas at the table with Taft had the look of hard cases. Two more had their backs to me, wore Mexican-style sombreros.”
“You talk to any of ’em?”
“Only to Taft.”
“You get anything out of him?”
“He was as jittery as a spinster caught outside in her nightclothes. He was doin’ everything he could to keep me from goin’ to that back table where his guests were.”
Jack VanDorn was rolling himself a cigarette. “Reason enough right there to make sure we do have a few words with ’em.”
Emmett looked at Juanito. “Either Taft’s decided to dispense with due process and taken matters into his own hands, or somebody else is calling the shots now, don’t you reckon?”
“Now don’t go jumpin’ to conclusions,” the marshal said.
“What am I supposed to think?” Emmett said. “This afternoon Taft suddenly wants to drop charges, insists I come down for a drink. Now you tell us he’s trying to keep us away from the five hard-looking strangers he’s got in there…”
“We need to pull Taft aside,” Juanito said. “Ask him point blank whether he’s got somebody else leaning on him.”
“That’d be one way to proceed.”
“You’ve got another idea, Emmett?” VanDorn asked, one eyebrow raised.
“We’ve got six strong gunhands between us right here and now.” Emmett motioned around the circle. “May not have much better odds in our favor—”
“You mean all six of us goin’ in?” the marshal said. “And doin’ what?”
“Cutting out the bad eggs. Pulling them out of the crowd.”
“What, and risk a full-fledged shoot-out in a crowded saloon? I won’t have it.” The marshal pointed at Li. “Besides, I don’t mean any insult, but the lady here—you reckon she’s really fit for this kinda business?”
Emmett glanced at Li. She stood straight, hands hanging casually in the pockets of her duster. “The lady’s seen more gun work up close and personal than most folks west of the Mississippi. She knows how to handle herself.”
Li looked down and toed the dust.
“We could wait ’em out, catch ’em as they leave,” VanDorn said.
“And if they leave in ones and twos?” Emmett asked. “Either some of ’em slip away from us, or we end up all split up. We lose the advantage of having the six of us all together.”
Marshal Perry spat in the dirt. “Blazes.”
Emmett rested his hand on the marshal’s shoulder. “Look, more than anything, we need to find out who these people are and what their intentions are.”
The marshal lifted his hat, scratched his head, and sighed. “All right. You five wait here then. I’ll go in and get Taft, bring him out to talk. But don’t you go gettin’ all twitchy. Give me a good ten, fifteen minutes.” Reseating his Stetson, he turned to set out across the street.
Deputy Livingston snagged the marshal’s arm. “Why don’t you let me go in instead?”
Shrugging himself loose, the marshal said, “You just hold your horses. Wait here.”
Emmett let the marshal get most of the way across the street before telling the others, “Follow me. I wanna be close at hand if things go wrong in there.”
“Where to?” VanDorn asked.
“Right outside the front doors, one person at the window, watching what’s happening inside.”
Li and Deputy Livingston both answered at the same time that they’d take the window.
Emmett placed his hand in the small of his wife’s back and began across the street. “Deputy, you take the window.”
The others followed.
“Why did you choose the deputy to watch?” Li asked, her voice low.
“Didn’t want your pretty face so well lighted. I want you to remain a mystery.”
While Emmett and the others remained in the street, just off the boardwalk, Warren Livingston stepped up and made his way to the window.
The deputy peered in and reported, “Marshal’s at that back table. Taft’s on his feet.”
Emmett murmured to his wife, “Same as when Hawk Cunningham and his compadre provoked us out in front of that restaurant, Li—you draw if I draw. You’ll be fine.”
The deputy’s voice tensed. “Now the middle stranger is on his feet, too. He’s sayin’ somethin’ to the marshal. Marshal’s got Taft by the arm. One of the Mexicans is up.”
“Anybody in there look itchy to yank on their gun?” Emmett asked.
“Can’t tell.”
“Wait here,” Emmett mumbled to Li. He stepped up onto the boardwalk and peered through the window for himself. Was this already the critical moment? It was touchy, no question. Taft looked like a jackrabbit caught between a bobcat and a coyote.
“Should we go in?” the deputy asked.
“Hold on just a minute.” Emmett didn’t want to wade into a room full of ordinary folks, have somebody get gun happy, and end up with an innocent bystander bleeding to death on the floor.
His mind was racing—until his brain told him who it was his eyes were seeing. The rotund Mexican was now showing a full profile, a profile he’d remember if he lived to be 150. Victorio Sanchez, that no-good…Emmett recalled his cherished young wife, Gabriela, in Sanchez’s grasp. Saw the bullet punch into her chest. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He couldn’t help but glance at Li.
Sanchez couldn’t be the moving force behind all this trouble, could he? Could his grudge be that strong? Where’d he get the money to hire gunslicks like these? Or did somebody owe him something from his time in prison?
Inside, the marshal began to back away from the table, towing Franklin Taft along by the arm. Taft—still heeled—didn’t seem to be resisting.
But now a gun was out. A second gunslick was on his feet, revolver pointed at Taft and the marshal.
“Let’s go,” Emmett said, already heading for the saloon entrance. He felt the others following him as he unholstered his Colt and burst through the batwing doors. Li will be OK, he promised himself just before he turned his full attention to the matter at hand.
“Texas Rangers!” he shouted as he made his way between tables. “Put down those guns.”
He counted on the crowd getting out of the way, although you never knew—sometimes in a situation like this, folks would simply sit there like the spellbound audience at some highfalutin play. Problem was, there was no predicting which it would be.
The bedlam came fast. Tables toppled, and folks dove for cover. Here and there a fool or two stood where they were, slack jawed, taking in the unfolding drama.
A gun went off, and the marshal fell.
No more dithering over formalities now.
With six-guns skinned, all five men at the back table were up and facing Emmett and his friends.
Victorio Sanchez’s eyes locked on Emmett’s.
Emmett figured that, while dangerous, his old nemesis was probably nowhere near as deadly as the three pistoleros just beyond him.
Sneering, Sanchez twisted, his pistol swinging up. Sure enough, before the Mexican could get off a shot, the middle gunslick snapped up his own gun and fired—lightning fast.
Emmett, already moving, winced, his earlobe instantly aflame with pain. He squeezed the trigger, going for the gunslick rather than for Sanchez. He hit his target’s shoulder.
A pistol popped loudly just behind him. Victorio Sanchez clawed at his belly and crumpled, his revolver discharging as he went down.
The air filled with flashes, bangs, and pungent smoke. All around the room, people shouted.
Emmett got off another shot. Then he had to hold up as a pair of wild-eyed saloon girls dashed, screaming along the way, directly into his line of fire.
They raced past Li, who crouched there in the middle of the melee, side toward the back table, firing, letting the trigger of her Colt Lightning reset, and firing again.
Emmett wanted to pull her to cover.
But another bullet smacked him, sending searing pain through his left side.
He dropped to one knee, his gaze darting again to the gunhands at the back table. They were spreading out, apparently intent on killing him before finishing off anyone else.
Suddenly Li was beside him. “Emmett!” she cried.
“Get behind a table, Li,” he said. “Get yourself reloaded. I’ll be OK.”
She looked into his eyes for the briefest second then scurried for the nearest piece of fallen furniture.
The gunslick wearing the gray hat was looking directly at Emmett, pistol outstretched. They both let fly in the same instant. Part of the gunslick’s face disappeared in a grisly mass. What the gunman’s bullet struck, Emmett didn’t know—thankfully, it wasn’t him.
Another of the three from the back of the room—a shorter fellow—was now striding calmly forward, gritting his teeth and firing away.
Fearing this might be his last bullet, Emmett snapped off a shot and caught the bantam square in the chest.
The gunslick’s eyes widened, and he clutched his shirtfront. But he didn’t go down. With a growl that grew to a roar, he again raised his Schofield.
Emmett thumbed back the hammer of his new Colt and pulled the trigger. There was no percussive jolt. Only a cold metallic click. Just as he feared—his cartridges were all spent.
The bantam with the Schofield never got off his shot, though. Somebody else’s bullet—aimed or stray—spun and toppled him with a bloody spray trailing behind.
Emmett scrambled to the right. He didn’t want to leave Li unarmed, but time was tight, and he needed a loaded pistol. At least one hired gun was still alive and wreaking havoc.
“Something’s wrong,” Li said. Her eyes were wide.
“Are you hit?”
She shook her head, but before she could explain, the remaining gunslick called out, “Emmett Strong. Just you and me.”
Emmett wrested a Remington revolver from the hand of an unfortunate customer, a fellow lying there with eyes closed and blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.
“Strong,” the gunslick said. All shooting had suddenly stopped. “Let’s take it outside. No more bystanders hurt.”
“Why should I? We’ve got you penned in.” Emmett checked the cylinder of the borrowed Remington. Three bullets.
The gunman scoffed. “Look again.”
Emmett glanced around. The smoke-filled room was littered with fallen furniture and bodies. Groans punctuated by coughs broke the silence. Nobody else was left standing. A few of the saloon’s patrons were hunkered down along the edges of the place. The big paned-glass window was blown out. He worried where Juanito was.
“It’s your fault all this happened, Strong,” the gunslick said.
“I didn’t draw first,” Emmett yelled back, his anger rising. “I didn’t come to El Paso looking to gun down anybody.”
“I did,” the gunslick said. “I came looking for you.”
Emmett’s side hurt something fierce. If he’d let himself think about it, he was sure he’d feel nauseous. There was a ringing in his left ear, too.
“Just who the hell are you?” he said. “And who the hell sent you?” He eyed Li as he spoke.
She started to move, but he signaled to her to stay still.
“The name’s Ned Cage.” The gunslick said. There was a mirthful edge to the voice.
Now Emmett did feel sick to his stomach. “‘Three-Finger’ Ned Cage?”
Li frowned.
A chair scraped the floor over near the gunslick. “One and the same.”
“Still carry Arizona Jack Jamison’s trigger finger around in your pocket?”
There was a snort. “Yep. You can have it if you can kill me.”
“Tell you what…” Emmett tried to shift around and spot Cage without rising. “When I kill you, I’ll take Jack Jamison’s finger and give it a separate burial.”
“More likely I’ll change my name to ‘Four-Finger’ Ned Cage and start carryin’ your trigger finger around with me, too.”
“I’m flattered,” Emmett said. “But it’s not gonna happen that way. I got the bulge on you once. I’ll do it again.”
“If you really think so, let’s do like I said—take it to the street, and see which of us is right.” Cage chuckled.
Thick as these tabletops were, they might not stop or even deflect Cage’s bullets. And if Emmett stayed put where he was, the outlaw would eventually walk right up and plug him but good. He had to move.
He glanced again at Li. More than anything, he wanted life with her. He couldn’t let tonight be the end of that. Not if he could help it.
Motioning again to his wife to stay still, Emmett began to crawfish slowly from one fallen table to another, away from Ned Cage. The smear of blood he left as he moved was not encouraging.
Boots clomped on the wood plank flooring. This wasn’t going to do for him.
“All right, Cage”—blazes, he hated this—“You and me, face to face.”
He pulled off his hat. Rolling to his side, he tossed it straight up, waiting to see whether Cage would shoot.
No shot sounded. Cage laughed. “You don’t trust me, Strong. You don’t know me.”
Cold-hearted bastard, Emmett thought. Fancies himself a man of honor. Meanwhile, he can gun down a man for a fee and then sleep like a baby that very night.
“All right,” Emmett said, “let’s take it outside, then. I’m standing up now.”
He was halfway to standing upright when Li popped up from behind the table just ahead and to his right.
Emmett’s blood ran cold.
Cage whirled and squeezed off a shot.
Strong Suspicions (Emmett Strong Westerns Book 2) Page 21
